


Memories of a Dream

by artisticOptimism



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticOptimism/pseuds/artisticOptimism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't quite remember if his dear friend Sherlock Holmes was ever real. Perhaps he was all part of an elaborate coma dream, and was only a figment of his imagination. However, figment or no, he can't seem to stop thinking about him and his horrible suicide.</p>
<p>Written in first person from John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a little late to be posting this, seeing as Series Three of Sherlock came out a few days ago, but I've only just recieved my account. This is one of the only fanfictions I'm proud of (and it's not even that great) so I decided "what the heck, I'll go ahead and post it". Enjoy!

     A dream. That was all it was. I never really met him, or knew him. He was never real. He couldn’t have been. This is what I’ve been telling myself after I woke from being in a five-week long, alcohol induced coma. I learned in my medical training that if one was to wake from a coma, they may have had a very vivid dream, and end up confusing it with reality. That must have been what happened to me. I don’t remember why I had been drinking so incredibly heavily, or at all, for that matter. All I know is that now, nobody seems to remember his name. Nobody remembers where the address of the flat was. Nobody can recall seeing the tall man in his long, black coat stride down the street with purpose, his blue-gray eyes ablaze with a fiery passion for his work. Nobody remembers anything about the world’s only consulting detective, the great Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it’s because nobody wants to. Maybe it’s because nobody ever knew him in the first place.

     If he was a figment of my imagination, he certainly was a product of the insane smarts that must be buried somewhere deep in my brain. He was almost simply a brain himself, always calculating, deducing, solving everything. His intelligence was so insane that he had a right to call everyone else stupid, and he did. Yes, he was often condescending and rude, had no respect for normal, socially acceptable practices, and he kept his emotions locked in a steel cage at all times. However, he had feelings, and if you looked closely, you could tell. You could see when one of his emotions slipped out of the cage for even a moment. There was always a small flicker of something in his eyes, and he would freeze, perfectly aware that deep down, he was feeling something. Then, he’d shut the cage again, lock it tight, and carry on as usual. But the best thing about this brilliant man was that even an idiot could tell when he genuinely cared, and wanted you to know. He would do anything to protect those he cared about, and I was lucky enough to be the one he cared about the most. But if he really cared… why did he jump? Why did he leave me?

     He knew it was going to happen that way. He planned it. He always planned everything, though I can’t help but wonder why he planned this. Despite his constant boredom when he wasn’t working, he was a happy man. He had a perfect niche in society, loved his work, and had a friend who would support him until the end. But the end came too soon. If he really cared, he wouldn’t have left. At least he had the courtesy to say goodbye.

     This man has had such a profound impact on my life, although he never did. There never was a Sherlock Holmes. It comforts me to think that since he never existed, he never died, but all the same, I wish he had been real. I know that it’s a childish fantasy to wish for a fictional character to be real, but I miss him. I need him. Now that I know he never existed, I realize that my life always has been normal and boring. Nothing ever happens to me. Everything happened to him. Maybe that’s why I dreamed him up. My subconscious knew I needed excitement, as well as a friend, so it created an exciting, extraordinary friend for me. He was so exciting, so fantastic that I wish I had stayed in the coma. I don’t like real life in the slightest. It’s far too boring. With him, nothing was ever boring. We were always rushing here and there, solving murders and having a laugh or two amongst ourselves along the way. But that never really happened, did it?

     It’s been a month since I’ve been in the coma, but I still remember this man like he was real. We shared so much together, and it’s horrifying to think that even in the world of my coma, I can never see him again. He’s dead there, and he never existed here. The more I think about him and subconsciously insist that my dream was real, the worse my mental health gets, but I refuse to go back to that confounded therapist. I don’t need her. She’s no help. She’s not Sherlock. I need him. I need to hear his deep voice flow like a river as he explains something in so much detail that my head spins. I need to see his tall, slender figure advance towards me with one of those rare, genuine smiles on his face. I need him to stand by my side and laugh with me at silly little things only we find hilarious. I need to go on mind-blowing adventures with him again until I’m so exhausted I can do nothing but collapse on whatever’s in front of me. I miss him.

     What makes matters worse is that I think I may have loved him. He was a figment of my imagination, and another male at that, but nevertheless, I’ve fallen for him somehow. He was a beautiful human being in every possible way. His appearance was always purposeful, and sometimes even regal, in the way he presented himself, and the way he looked naturally. His mind was also elegant in its own way. He was not a perfect man, but he was a great man. I know I’m not gay, so I suppose he’s my one exception… but he’s not real.

     Even walking down the street now, I imagine him beside me. As I glance at people passing by, I try to deduce things about them the way he did. I’ll mumble the deductions to myself, and sometimes I think I hear him praise me when I get something right. I turn to smile at him, but he’s not there. Sometimes I wonder if this is really the dream, and if Sherlock was real. Maybe I had been drinking to take my mind off of his death, and this was the coma dream I was having. I feel like he was real. I remember everything about him, but either way, he’s gone. I sit down on the curb, and I whisper his name softly, over and over again. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sometimes I hope that he’ll come to me if I call him enough, and sometimes I even think I hear him whisper my name in response. John. John. Over and over again, an answer to each of my soft whispers. I can hear his voice, feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, and smell his faint, sweet scent. I feel his long fingers rest on my shoulder lightly, and then I hear him speak my name very clearly. “John.” I get up and run, holding my head as tears stream from my eyes. I think I hear him calling me again, and I think I hear his footsteps as he runs to me. I run faster. I’m going mad. He never existed. I’m imagining everything. Maybe I do need to see my therapist again.


End file.
